Short Story - Freedom
by MiaqTheLiar
Summary: A short story on a prisoner who suffers in a prison, if the fates hadn't allowed his escape.


_English Language AS – Jarrad Bridge_

_**Creative Writing – Journey:**_

Daylight, birds, sound of water. The fleeting feeling of freedom before the stench of death and decay invade the senses, the withered straw bed scratches at the scars and blemishes from the previous night. My eyes blink progressively before the dim light from the ceiling adjusts to the darkness within my cell, as my bones ache from the enclosed space. The low moans and grunts emanating from adjacent cells creates a small harmony of feebleness and submission, unyieldingly sapping whatever hope people had from escaping our torment. Continuing throughout the day, the orchestra grows. Bars rattled, prisoners screaming, rats feasting. In here the dead outnumber the living-dead, as called as the only way out is through the headsmen's block or through a rat's stomach. Only those who sacrifice everything live long enough to see the headsmen, slowly sacrificing a toe, a foot, a leg as bait for the vermin a small feast to a man who has nothing to live for. For the first few weeks, imprisonment had been a phase of rebellion and complete denial of the inevitable loss of humanity. The subtle defiance to relinquish their confidence will always wane, in the end, a rabid rat looks more appetising than one's self. Insanity crawls in and you take the plunge, which has no return.

The guards who patrol the one vast corridor, lined with the desperate, always tempt them with food. Waving a loaf of stale bread as if it was nothing, but the eyes of every prisoner thought differently. Some of the crueller guards would piss on the bread before tossing it into one of cells chuckling manically as the lucky prisoner ravaged the stained loaf; as such a prize shouldn't be laughed at, it meant you had one extra toe by the end of the week. Some of the smarter prisoners would only devour a small part of the stale bread so the guard would leave, then hoard the rest into smaller meals. Others share the bread between surrounding prisoners, not forgetting what the guard had done to it, just not caring. Some take no word before snatching the bread, others like to trade. It's nice to have some variety in what little you can eat. Between bread, rats and flesh, not much gets brokered, every so often a bird will pop up between deals that gets everyone's attention, a delicacy here in the Pitt.

I shuffle my weight around to face the gate, no space to stand up in. Instantly the guy opposite my cell stares intently towards me. This is one of the smarter prisoners, keeping half a loaf behind him and his leg away from the damper corners of his cell, fresher meat for the rats. Once content to find me awake he returns to absentmindedly grinding a tooth with a stone, the skeletal features of his face, a mask of concentration as he forges a makeshift shiv. A useful tool for life in the Pitt, hunting a rats and birds are easier prey and protection when they send us to Hell. The namesake of the Pitt is a small arena type area dug into the ground and a cage suspended over the top. The arena slopes towards the middle before one singular hole, so deep nothing comes out. This is Hell. And the arena is the Pitt. The guards usually like to take prisoners and bet on victors, mainly the newer, fresher prisoners as it's rather difficult to fight with only one leg. The winner is the last one left standing and is usually rewarded with more stained-bread. Prisoners volunteer in droves.

The soft tune of the song bird rattles the minds of the prisoners, the serene hymn resonates from the grate above my cell. Tormenting freedom to all those who hear its song, the freedom to fly beyond the confinements of the Pitt. The simple song that goads all those who hear it. I try to gaze at the creature infesting my peace but the sun blinds me. Slowly but surely though more sounds joined the chorus. A distant low rumble evolves into a thundering earthquake of voices and crowds moving. Only reason so many people would be here, public execution. Another method of entertainment at the expense of our own, the people gather to witness the death of another human-being, humanity at its finest. Distracted by the plethora of noises, guards invade my cell and beat me down to the ground, cover my face and drag me to the unknown. I can feel a bruise forming on the left side of my face, scraping against the burlap sack that blinds me to my surroundings. The sense of winding through the halls that brings us closer to the mass rumbling when suddenly light blasts through the blindfold, the vast roar of people.

The guards then remove my blindfold and I'm open to the world, the breeze, the sunlight, the feeling of freedom. Fleeting. The crowds come into view, the look of senseless rage on all of them, shaking in fury for a crime they neither know nor understand. Each of screaming in rage towards me.

"Take his head!"

"Bleed 'im for all he's worth!"

"String him up!"

The guards kneel me beside the cold stone as the executioner sweeps beside me, the contorted grimace, eyes glassed and teeth lost. He walks with bravado as he prowls around me, assessing his prey. Content with his victim, he presses his foot against my back, crushing my neck against the stone, a rumble of approval emits from the crowd demanding more. The executioner playing the crowd for all they are worth, the shadow of his axe silhouette the muted crowd. The bated breath brings silence for all but the one song bird, singing her song. I see her fly from the prison and my severed body as my head rolls towards the crowd.


End file.
